Letters to a Dead Man
by detectiveintheshadows
Summary: Irene hasn't seen Sherlock since Karachi. She tries to write an e-mail to him. Post-Reichenbach. Adlock, Sherene, Shirene, whichever ;)


**Hey guys! So this is a small drabble I did while I was procrastinating. I hope you like it!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own 'Sherlock' or Sherlock and Irene. Unfortunately. T.T**

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**Letters to a Dead Man**

The first time she attempts it, she knows it's far too telling (_and sentimental... _a voice whispers in the back of her mind- she shoves it away roughly) to even consider sending. But she writes it anyway.

_Sherlock,_

_I still remember exactly what you look like. I remember every detail of your face exactly as it was and the mole on your throat and the way your forehead wrinkled when you were in your mind palace and how your voice hitched ever so slightly when I ran my fingers through your curls just so..._

_I still kid myself that you care for me sometimes. Do you still think about me? Do you still remember __us__? Those days on the run, sweat soaked sheets in Karachi, dingy holes where you forced me to lay low? _

_Irene_

The second time, on the second day, she manages to sound a little more professional.

_Mr Holmes,_

_Has your appetite grown? I'm still leaving the offer of dinner open, if you're... interested in any way. Not that you weren't last time, but then, things have changed. I heard about your little tumble off St. Barts. How's John, by the way? Told him yet? _

_I gather not. He's still heartbroken, as it turns out._

_The Woman_

It doesn't ring quite right. Growling with frustration and, maybe, just the barest hint of anger- at him, at herself, at everyone for causing this stupid, stupid mess that nobody is aware of except herself, she deletes the e-mail and her account and goes to bed.

But night is only tears threatening to overspill and thoughts that she would prefer not to be thinking and the echoes of his voice- that clarion voice that she had fallen for- in her ears and the ghost of his touch on her wrist and, and, and...

Eventually, she just clenches her fists and grits her teeth to wait for dawn.

On the third day, she stares at the glaring-white blank screen for what seems like an eternity before shutting the laptop and giving up. This time for good, she tells herself silently.

Within the hour, she is back. Still staring. Her insides still a turmoil of worry and regret and pain and anger and Lord knows what but she misses him so much that there is a deep pain at the pit of her stomach and she simply can't take it.

Finally, she just types:

_Sherlock,_

_I know that you're busy dismantling Moriarty's web and this is unwelcome and unnecessary or whatever you might label it, but I just wanted you to know that- well, that I... I miss you. And I know it won't make any difference and yes, I am being too sentimental and that I shouldn't even be thinking about this but then, after all... What have I got to lose?_

_I feel like I'm breaking and nobody can do anything about it. _

_Always yours_

_Irene Adler_

Her cursor hovers over SEND for a while, wavering in her indecision. She clicks SAVE DRAFT and gets a bottle of wine from the fridge.

Later, after what could be her fifth bottle and when she is in a drunken stupor and too intoxicated to tell the laptop from the table, she finally falls asleep.

She never sends that e-mail. Because if Sherlock Holmes had ever fallen in love with her, he had fallen in love with the strong, scar-free, dominatrix Irene Adler, not this crumbling-to-pieces, broken, _gone _fauximitation of The Woman.

It takes a month and three days for her to come to terms with the fact that Sherlock is never coming back.

A week later, blood drips from her wrists to the floor.

A week later, the streets of Athens are filled with the haunting melody of Irene Adler's Lament.

A week later, Sherlock Holmes finds a notification in his inbox.

_Sherlock,_

_I know you won't receive this until it's too late. Too late for me, that is. I won't fake it this time. This is going to be real and you probably wouldn't even care, if I'm honest with myself. But just indulge me this one time, would you? The final wish of a dying woman._

_Remember me._

_Irene Adler_

And Sherlock finds tears running down his cheeks for the first time in decades, because how could she ever know now that he would never, _could_ never forget any single detail of her and that she ruled his Mind Palace and she was _The _Woman to him?

And he might as well do it now, because they already think he's dead and buried and no one would miss him anyway. And she was the only one that would have mourned and now she was gone too and there really was no point in living now. The one woman who mattered to him, _The _Woman, was dead.

A week later, a gunshot rings through a tiny alley hidden in Athens.

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**Thanks for reading! I know, the ending's a little sudden, but I got a bit bored writing it (as I usually do) so it's not as good as I would have hoped. Hope you liked it :)**

**-detectiveintheshadows**


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